


Mead

by quadrotriticale



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: FUCK, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, anyway youre welcome, danny writes gay shit the movie, hey whats up welcome to my house where i use the word cock one time, johnny dont @ me, thanks for coming, thats both a pun and just a stupid joke and i hate it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 02:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15184325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrotriticale/pseuds/quadrotriticale
Summary: You’re wobbly on your feet so he keeps an arm around you and you keep a hand fisted loosely in the fabric of the back of his shirt. With you leaning heavily on him, he half carries you to your shared room.Something strange happens in the doorway. He stops to turn the light on, stops to close the door, and you’re not sure how he ends up facing you, but he does, hand still lingering on your waist, eyes searching your face questionably.(And they’re beautiful eyes, this sort of quiet blue, expressive and soft and inquisitive right now, wanting to know what you want, what you’re doing.)





	Mead

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my house where i write softcore porn and hide it in my docs for a year and feel really weird about the word cock. honestly its just fluff so if you wanna skip over my weird side stepping its like. its literally jsut the second last paragraph or something  
> anyway just letting everyone know i love bucky barnes so much   
> also i didnt proof this so fuck i guess

Oh, you’re drunk. Asgardian mead is good and you’ve had a bit too much courtesy of your friend and colleague the actual norse god of thunder, Thor Odinson. The 21st century is something else, that’s for sure. 

You’re sitting on an old couch in one of the common areas of the bunker, sagging seats and questionable stains and thin fabric. You lean heavily against Bucky, against his side instead of his arm because at some point, you don’t remember when, he moved his arm closest to you so it was set up on the back of the couch, and then he’d just… looped it around you, and you’d had enough to drink by that point that the little voice in your head and the little wrenching in your gut that didn’t want to seem homosexual were entirely outweighed by how warm he is and how comfortable he is and how much you just want to be close to him. So, he holds you loosely and you clutch a mostly empty glass in your hand, alternate between engaging in the conversation and burying your face in his shoulder. 

The crowd of older supers has been dwindling for the last couple hours, slowly, and you’re thankful. This little gathering was something of a victory party crossed with a wake and you’ve long since hit the point where you want to curl up in a dark room somewhere and… cry, maybe rest, you’re not sure. The last person to turn in, officially, was Sam an hour ago as far as the analog clock on the wall tells you. Thor himself has since fallen asleep-slash-passed out on one of the other couches and you can hear his quiet snoring over the sound of Nat and Bucky’s quiet conversation and your own breathing. They’re not talking about anything in particular, and you’re tired. When you hide your face this time, Bucky gently rubs your side, takes a second from the conversation to ask you if you want to go to bed.

(You don’t, not yet, but you give him your glass and curl in on yourself anyway. He doesn’t object.)

There’s a smile in Nat’s voice when she speaks again. 

“He just clings to you,” she says to Bucky, soft amusement in her voice.

“Guess he missed me, huh,” he replies, and you like the way his voice sounds, like the way he speaks and how you hear it differently so close to him. (You like the safety of your position and you like the feeling of his hand on your waist, you like the way he smells and the steady rate of his breathing, you like when he leans his head on yours and you just like him.)

“He did,” she says, and you mumble agreement into Bucky’s shoulder. He laughs quietly, and you find yourself melting a little at the sound. They talk for a while longer before Nat decides to turn in. You only half acknowledge her, and Bucky tells you gently that you should get some rest too. This time, you don’t object.

You’re wobbly on your feet so he keeps an arm around you and you keep a hand fisted loosely in the fabric of the back of his shirt. With you leaning heavily on him, he half carries you to your shared room.

Something strange happens in the doorway. He stops to turn the light on, stops to close the door, and you’re not sure how he ends up facing you, but he does, hand still lingering on your waist, eyes searching your face questionably.

(And they’re beautiful eyes, this sort of quiet blue, expressive and soft and inquisitive right now, wanting to know what you want, what you’re doing.)

You don’t know what you’re doing when your hands get to his neck, when your thumbs brush the scruff on his jaw, don’t quite know what you mean by any of this when he says your name like a question and you just shake your head. 

When you kiss him, it isn’t hard, it isn’t rushed, it isn’t a thousand and one other things you’ve thought about. It’s a soft press of your lips to his, shy and careful and unsure because you’ve never kissed another man, never kissed anyone who wasn’t your mother, besides Peggy, once. You feel rather than hear his breath catch in his throat.

(His cheeks get wet, or maybe they’re yours, maybe those are your tears and maybe you’re crying, because it’s three o’clock in the morning and you’re 30 years old and your kissing your best friend like you’ve wanted to since you were 13.)

It doesn’t go anywhere. You kiss for an amount of time that could be forever, kiss until he has his hands balled in the back of your shirt and you’ve tangled your fingers into his hair, kiss until he stops you, rests his forehead against yours and tells you you’re going to regret it in the morning. You tell him that you know.

You ghost your lips against his again, though, tell him that you’ve wanted to kiss him since you were kids, tell him that he’s beautiful and he’s handsome and you love him, you need him to know you love him because you can’t tell him that when you can think straight and you’ve never told him that and meant it like this and you already lost him once so he needs to know and you’re crying again and you’ve hidden your face in his shoulder and he just holds you while you tremble, tells you that it’s okay, Steve, he’s got you.

When you stop shaking so bad, he helps you to your bunk. He’s never asked to crawl in with you but he does this time, and since you refuse to let go of at least part of him, you just pull on the fabric of his shirt until he gets the picture and lays down with you. You take your place, clinging and tucked against his side and he doesn’t protest, just lets you get comfy, lets you sniffle and hide and ball yourself up until you’ve relaxed.

(You tell him you love him again before you fall asleep.)

(In the morning, you pretend it didn’t happen. Things don’t quite go back to normal.)

You get drunk like that again about a month later. The first day after the last time was a little awkward, but he provides too much of a comfort for you to stay away from him, so you got over it and he gets over it and you go back to sleeping with your arms and legs draped over him and your head on his chest, and things are fine even if they’re a little bit awkward. 

Anyway, it’s a month later and you’re curled up in your bed with a pretty damn ornate bottle of mead clutched in your hands, again, courtesy of your friend and colleague, the Norse god of thunder. You’ve been passing it back and forth with Bucky for the better part of two hours, music drifting softly from your record player across the room whenever you remember to flip it or switch it out. His body is warm against yours, where you’ve set yourself against his side, and you think you’d like to just… stay here. You talk quietly while you finish off the bottle, toss it to the side when you’re done, and for the life of you, you can't think of anything else to talk about. You’re comfortable, and he’s taken to rubbing your side like he does when he’s comforting you, so you don’t mind. He drums the fingers of his prosthetic hand on his thigh in time with the music and you watch it quietly, think to yourself about everything that’s changed and everything that hasn’t, and you think this is okay.

You’d like it better to be home and to be in some little apartment in Brooklyn with him after he’s come back from the war, you’d like it better to be yourself again even if it means going back to being weak. What you got out of the whole supersoldier deal wasn’t worth what you lost. You’d like it better to be home and you’d like it better to die by the time you’re 40 like you were supposed to, die young when all your illnesses have caught up with you. You’d like that better, but this is okay, if this is what you get. (And you think, if you had to do it all again, if God gave you a second chance, you’d still make all your same mistakes and you’d still end up here curled up in a bed a few hundred feet underground with him, drinking alcohol from an alien world and thinking about everything you should have done differently.)

You don’t kiss him first, this time. He lets out this quiet sigh, and gently, very gently tips your face up to his. That first kiss is quick and unexpected, soft and chaste and shy and a million other things Bucky never is. You can taste the alcohol when he exhales, face still close to yours, and you want to kiss him again, of course you do. You’re drunk and you’ve loved him since before you understood the concept and as far as you know, he seems to love you too. So you tell him he should kiss you again, quiet and without moving back. He huffs a laugh before he does, fuller this time, bolder, and you shut your eyes, twist a little to get a better angle. 

It’s slow, at first. It’s easy and it’s soft and it feels like coming home, to let yourself be close to him like this. He doesn’t make you move into his lap, and you don’t think you’re conscious of the action yourself, but you get there, and he has his hands set on your hips, your shirt a little rucked up so he can touch your skin. It doesn’t take much prompting from him to get you to deepen the kiss, a little flick of his tongue against your lips and the touch of his hand to the skin of your back and you’re pressing closer, opening your mouth as your breath starts to come a little shakily. He lets his hands move up your back, under your shirt, and eventually you just break the kiss for a moment to pull it off. You feel rather than see his eyes rake up your torso, and you’re kissing him again before you really register it. Where your shirt went, you don’t know. 

When you get his shirt off, it slows down. Your hands on his chest, you want to know him, you want to touch his faint scars and you want to run your hands over his skin until you’ve memorized every little imperfection, until you’d be able to draw it from memory. He lets you have this, lets you focus on him and touch him and get to know him like you want to.

“Steve,” he says, his voice quiet, “I don’t know how far you want to take this tonight, but we have to talk about it later.”

There’s fear and disgust and horror in your gut, in the back of your mind from a betrayer, from a mindset you’ve been trying to rid yourself of, and you almost stop, almost skitter away and redress yourself, but you don’t stop, don’t let yourself stop all of what you’re doing. He rubs little circles on your hip with his thumb and you focus on that instead. 

“...You know there’s nothing wrong with this,” he tells you quietly, “...You’re allowed to love other men, alright, you’re allowed to love me, this-” he sneaks another little kiss, “is okay. Let yourself feel it, it’s alright.” 

You don’t respond, just sort of slump over him, letting your head rest on his shoulder even if it causes you to hunch a little. He rubs your back soothingly. “S’alright, Steve,” he says, “this is okay.”

You ask him quietly if he hates you and he huffs a little laugh, presses a kiss to your shoulder and tells you “of course not.” When you ask if he loves you, he softens, lets a little of his tension go. Instead of giving you an answer, he asks if you love him… and your face tucked against his shoulder, you tell him you’ve loved him since that meant anything and he just tells you that’s the answer to your own question. 

It doesn’t go any further tonight, although you do kiss him a little more, and he tells you you’re going to have to talk to him in the morning, but to sleep it off first. 

(You fall asleep tucked against his side again, shirt… somewhere. He’s warm.)

Morning comes and you do talk to him once you’ve had some water and eaten. It’s in your room and it isn’t easy but you reach a steady, careful conclusion that you love him and it isn’t the drink and you’re not alone in this and you knew that already. You don’t give it any names, and it’s awkward for a few days, but things go back to normal. You chance a kiss at breakfast three days later, short and shy and a little misaligned, and he gets this stupid, dopey grin on his face that makes your heart flutter and your stomach do somersaults. It gets easier after that, even if it doesn’t get public. Nothing really changes, everyone was already used to you clinging to each other, but in private you kiss him sometimes, he gets you to dance more than once. You feel… lighter. 

It takes a couple months for you to get comfortable enough with it to get past your discomfort when it comes to more sexual things. Admittedly, when you give him the go ahead to tug your pants off, finally, you’re a little drunk. You go far enough that night to call it sex, which drunk-you is inordinately proud of. He gets a hand down the front of your briefs, gets his fingers wrapped around your cock and you melt against him entirely, return the favor after he’s finished with you. You’re… sticky and uncomfortable when it’s over, but you’re light and you’re happy and when you’re clean and he lets you burrow your way under the blankets and back into his arms, you feel good. You tell him that was the first time you’ve ever had sex and he just giggles at you. (So you punch his shoulder and he just keeps giggling, and you giggle too because it’s silly and you’re sleeping with the man you love and it’s 2018, somehow, and you’re okay.)

(No one is surprised when you finally tell them, Natasha sarcastically congratulating you on finally figuring out that you were dating, Sam saying pretty much the same thing. Thor tells you with no small amount of confusion that he thought that was obvious.)


End file.
